


Storm's Arrival

by JenevaJensen



Series: The Beauty in Deadly Things [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Caught in the Act, F/M, Game of Thrones Fix-It, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Menstrual Sex, Oral Sex, Post - A Game of Thrones, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Reunion Sex, Reunions, Rough Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-09-06 19:57:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20297110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenevaJensen/pseuds/JenevaJensen
Summary: Upon her return from voyaging 'west of Westeros' Arya goes to Gendry at Storm's End. Will they find their relationship changed?





	1. Arrival

Gendry was asleep when he first sensed it. A wind-change, a gust of something that brought him awake as though a forge hammer had rung against steel beside him. It was dark. He sat up, his heart racing, eyes darting around the room trying to pinpoint whatever had woken him. He had banked the fire before retiring, but now he saw it alight with fledgling flames and a still, silent silhouette outlined against the stones of the hearth. Throwing back his covers, he asked, “Who’s there?” as he began to rise from the bed. The sound of tinder striking, a spark, and a glowing face appeared out of the gloom. 

“I’m back,” said the face, brazenly.

“Arya!” he was out of bed and crossing the room faster than she could have hoped for, gathering her into his arms so tightly that she could hardly breathe. He was kissing her hair, the top of her head, and he was…weeping. 

“Well, that’s not very Lordly,” she jibed, feeling all of the anxious tension coursing through her body dissipate as if the warmth and strength of his body were ironing it out of her. 

“You’re here,” he whispered wonderingly, joy radiating from his whole being, “you’re finally here.” It had been nearly six years. 

“How did you know where to find my rooms?” he asked at last, brushing a wisp of her hair behind her ear and cradling her face between his palms, gazing deep into her eyes, “Who else knows you’re here? You look…good.”

“So do you,” she grinned up at him, reveling in his delight, “Only makes sense the Lord would get the best views.” Nestling her head back into his bare chest, Arya hugged him tightly around the waist. He felt like an oven against the cool of the night air even through her layers of clothing. “I’m sure Bran knows I’m back, though I haven’t seen him. Storm’s End _is_ on the way to King’s Landing. We sailed last from Tyrosh. You’re my first stop in Westeros. I didn’t send a raven first… .” She could have done so from any port she’d made in the last 8 moons, but she hadn’t wanted to get her hopes up—or his—that she might actually return, only to have them dashed in that last leg of her journey. She raised her head, her eyes searching his, serious and suddenly apprehensive, looking for the answers to the only questions that mattered, “Is that still alright? I know what you said then, but things might have changed. We’ve changed. But are we…still…us?” Arya couldn’t help but glance towards his bed as if double-checking that he’d been alone.

Gendry snorted as he moved to feed the fire and light some more candles. He couldn’t keep the exasperation out of his voice as he replied, “I’ve never known an Arya Stark who didn’t know her own mind and she’s standing here in front of me. Now you’re not certain of me?” 

“Well…,” she cracked a grin, “You _did_ just blubber all over me like a baby. But maybe you’re just relieved I’m alive. I didn’t want to presume.”

“I _am_ relieved you’re alive. Six years is a long time not to know,” he said, without any hint of reproach in his voice, “But for me, nothing’s changed. Well, maybe a few things have changed. But not how I feel about you.”

“I’m welcome, then?” she asked. 

“Very welcome, milady,” he grinned.

“Don’t call me…actually…nevermind,” she said, “Your house, your rules, my lord.” 

Gendry reached for her hand and drew her closer to the fire, closer to him. Entwining his fingers with hers he enfolded their clasped hands over his heart before wrapping his other arm around her waist and towing her against him, “Like it was your rules on your ship?”

Arya nodded, her eyes studying his lips. He’d grown more facial hair in her absence. She couldn’t help wondering what it would feel like when she kissed him. His eyes travelled over her features, noting the slight changes: new scars, new marks from her journey. He wanted to ask about all of them: where and how she’d acquired them. But more than that he wanted to gaze into her eyes and live entirely in this secret, sacred moment in which they were the only two people in the world. 

But unlike aboard her ship, they couldn’t be the only two people in the world here, and he knew he had better let her know that before…well…before.

“Arya? Do you remember what you told me to do before you left?”

“Hmmm?” she hummed, leaning in to trace her lips along his collarbone. It sent shivers racing down his spine and he pulled back, rather than let her distract him. This was important.

“Arya. You said my rules.” 

Stubbornness had ousted the longing from his face and Arya knew she couldn’t dismiss it. “And you want to talk first?” she asked, seating herself in one of the chairs near the fire, one leg draped carelessly over the armrest, “We’re both much better in action, you know.” Her eyebrow quirked suggestively. 

Gendry held up a flagon of water, gesturing as to whether she’d like some. At her nod, he poured them both a cup and, handing hers over, said, “Let’s call it a skill I’ve been working on as a Lord. I can’t just bang things into submission, no matter how much I might want to.” Arya’s eyebrow lifted higher—the entendre not lost upon her. Gendry caught her expression and felt his cock twitch. He took a quick swallow of his drink before clearing his throat and redirecting. “You told me I should find out if I had any heirs,” he said, his steady eyes holding hers despite his evident trepidation. She nodded, remembering; realizing that if he was bringing this up, before everything else, he almost certainly…_did_.

“And you found…one?” she asked, the quirk in her brow shifting from flirtatious to curiosity.

He took another sip before answering, “I found three. Two are alive. And here.”

Arya leaned back in the chair, her mind racing. At last, she downed her drink and rose to her feet. Seeing his panicked expression, she made a moue of her mouth, grabbed his hand and pushed him into the chair across from where she’d been sitting. Plopping herself in his lap and throwing one arm around his broad shoulders she said, “I’m not going anywhere, fool. And it’s likely a long story. Tell me the rest.”

~~~~~~~

Storm’s End had become a craftsman’s colony—an enclave of artisans whose work was highly prized and sought after throughout the Six Kingdoms and beyond. Under King Bran, there was peace and stability and development. Lord Gendry Baratheon ensured that his people gained from what expertise he brought with him. Storm’s End was a reasonably short distance from King’s Landing and its infrastructure remained fully intact after all the years of feuding and wars. They were perfectly positioned to support the rebuilding of King’s Landing while also serving as a natural relocation destination for the skilled survivors of the ruined capitol. Upon returning from his sojourn with Arya, Gendry had fallen to work with a singlemindedness that his advisors found both inspiring and exhausting. Storm’s End was far more prosperous than it had been under Robert, Renly, Stannis or their father and the Stormlords and smallfolk were grateful for it. 

As one year became two, and then three, he had allowed the pace and fervor of his work to subside as he saw the success of his endeavors and learned to delegate more. It was not lost on his advisors that this shift occurred incrementally as their Lord made time and space for one and then another of his bastards in the Keep. 

Gendry maintained a regular correspondence with Ser Davos. The Master of Ships was no Master of Whispers, but he was discreet and trusted. It was he who brought Gendry the first of his children. A round-faced, blue-eyed, black-haired girl of two years with a wide mouth and slightly pointed ears. The last feature could be attributed to her mother, but in all other respects she was a mirror of Gendry. She was accompanied by her uncle—her mother’s younger brother, Eon—a boy Gendry knew last as an apprentice leather-worker of eleven, now aged fourteen and the girl’s sole provider. With wonder in his eyes, Gendry had watched the small, sturdy child explore his private audience chamber. She was bright-eyed and curious. She was _his_. This wondrous girl, he learned, had been born alongside a twin brother who perished in their mother’s arms amid the chaos and flame of Daenerys’ wrath little more than a moon’s turn after their birth. The rest of her family was gone—apart from the uncle who had flown the flames with her in his arms. Looking at his daughter, Gendry felt an impotent rage flare as he thought how impossible it was that the woman who granted him his lands and titles had, only weeks later, taken so much from his child. Any lingering disquiet he may have felt about assuming the title vanished in that moment, never to reappear: he would make it up to this child—_his child_. He immediately made provision for Eon be apprenticed to the master leatherworkers in the Keep. He was a talented, responsible, and hardworking lad. He ensured that rooms and care were provided for the girl—Fyffe—and he started, slowly, to make his own advances. She was accustomed to playing in the workshop as her uncle worked, so he began by visiting them there once and then twice a day. Soon—for she was a friendly child--her eyes had brightened each time he entered the shop and the first time she ran to hug his legs, laughing at his arrival his heart had leapt with joy. In no time she could be found riding his shoulders as he toured the Keep on his daily rounds. Eventually, Lady Fyffe moved from her uncle’s lodgings into the nursery apartment established in the Keep. Sometimes, in quiet moments, when she was asleep and candle or firelight caught her features, Gendry couldn’t help but see the shadow of the son—her brother, Pyrik—that he would never know. Eon had told him they were identical as babes: “The only way to tell them apart was to change their clouts.” 

“You love her,” Arya murmured, awestruck. As she brushed her fingers through his hair at his temple, Gendry turned from gazing into the fire back to her. She had only seen such rapt softness in his expression a handful of times in all the years she’d known him, and each time before this, he had been gazing at her. She felt a snake of envy coil itself briefly in her stomach, but his expression grew even softer, somehow, as he reconnected with her. The envy melted away. This side of him was entirely…new. And endearing. She would have to get used to it. 

“She’s seven now,” he smiled up at her. “She’s all sweetness and giggles. I petitioned Bran for her to be made legitimate immediately. I’d no doubt she’s mine. Shirei, her mother…,” Gendry looked a little abashed and Arya could feel his legs shift nervously underneath her, even as he threaded his fingers through hers giving them a reassuring squeeze, “We’d been bedding regular for a time. Shirei was lively and easy to be around. I suppose that’s where Fyffe gets it from. About four moons before Ser Davos came to take me to Jon at Dragonstone, she sent word that she was going to visit an aunt outside the city. I don’t know if she ever really left—Eon’s never said. But I didn’t see her again. She must have been about six or seven moons gone when I left King’s Landing without another thought or word of her.”

Arya’s left arm was resting lightly across his shoulders and her fingers traced light, meaningless patterns on his upper arm as he talked. “Fyffe’s a proper little Lady, now,” Gendry said proudly, “But she’s bold. She’ll no doubt come crashing in here as soon as she’s dressed in the morning with a story about her puppy. She’s named it Nymeria. After your direwolf. She’s heard me speak of you her whole life. She’s always asking when you’re coming home.” At that, Arya’s whole body stilled. Gendry felt it, and his right arm tightened about her waist, willing her with all his might not to pull away. 

After a silence and stillness that lasted too long, Gendry turned her expressionless face to his, “We may not be wed in any way blessed by the Old Gods or the New, Arya, but you are My Lady and my family and this is my home. You are a part of it. I don’t know how you spent the past six years, but each day you roved, you were also here, alongside me, arguing with me inside my head.”

“Gods, he’s so…open,” Arya thought to herself, studying him impassively. These years, this peace, this life had cracked him wide open. He was so at ease despite having so much more that could break him--that he could lose. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t considered the possibility that he might have found an heir and made a life—she’d been the one to suggest he look, after all. But ghostly imaginings aboard ship were a far cry from the reality of actual people. People to whom she was—apparently—a legendary figure about to become flesh and blood among them. People who had expectations of her; people she could disappoint. 

She shook herself out his arms and crossed the room to look out. She couldn’t see the thrashing sea from this side of the Keep, but she could hear it. The sound of it soothed her—it had been her constant companion. Gendry rose himself to add another log to the fire and pull a shirt over his head. “If you need some air, we could walk the Lord’s Walk. Only the maester’s cell lies between us and the top of the Keep. It would be like being on deck,” Gendry offered, his voice casual but his stomach churning. She was so still. Where was her fight? Where was her banter? She’d gone faceless. At last, Arya nodded, and turned away from the window. “Let’s walk,” she said.

They paced circles around the parapet in silence for quite some time before Arya took his hand and squeezed it saying, “You said there were two children here, but I’ve only heard about one.” 

Squaring his shoulders, Gendry took a breath before replying, “Tytha. She’s three years older than Fyffe, but she’s been here less than two years. I think…” his eyes darted sideways at her, “I’ve sent ravens to your sister asking for advice about her several times since her arrival.” This revelation startled Arya’s steps and she exclaimed, “Sansa? You write to Sansa?” 

“She wrote to me first. She implied…no,” he amended, “She made it clear that she knew about us.” A smile pulled at the corner of Arya’s mouth as she recalled the only raven she’d sent from Oldtown before finally setting sail. “I asked her to help you if she ever could. I asked her to consider any request from you as she would a request from me.” 

“She has.” 

“And she’s well?”

“Very. Do you want me to share all your family stories or should I stick with my own?”

Tempting as it was, Arya shook her head, “No. They’ll wait. Tell me about Tytha.”

~~~~~~~

It had taken him longer to locate the other two women. Wyla was located hale and happy, pouring ale in an inn near the rebuilt Street of Steel in King’s Landing. She had borne no children but was expecting her first with her new husband when Gendry found her. 

Galla had been much, much harder to find. She was the first woman he’d had after returning to King’s Landing. After the Red Witch. The removal of that last leech had hurt. He’d been sore for some time and bitter about it. Also, frustrated. Galla was the daughter of Old Arlen, a travelling merchant from Highgarden. The city had been full of trade from Highgarden at that time, as Queen Margaery and the Tyrells were rising. Galla eyed him with appreciation and no small amount of lust when her father stopped at the forge where he’d been working. In the tavern up the street that night, she had appeared beside him with a carafe of wine and by morning he’d been reassured that all his parts were in working order, in spite of Melisandre and her leeches. The affair had lasted a week before Old Arlen and his daughter moved on. 

Old Arlen resumed his circuit between Highgarden and King’s Landing after the Lord Paramount of the Reach became the Master of Coin—a development that benefited his own holding more than any other, it seemed. On his most recent trip to King’s Landing, Old Arlen had been accompanied by his granddaughter, Tytha Flowers. During her years travelling with her father, Galla had borne two bastards before settling down with a widowed farmer and his son. Tytha had taken badly to the new arrangement. After the arrival of another half-brother, she made frequent runaway attempts. When Old Arlen stopped to see his daughter following the birth of her fourth child, she packed Tytha off with him, rather than allow her eldest to disrupt her marriage any further. Upon reaching King’s Landing, Old Arlen was aghast to learn that he’d somehow caught the attention of the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and even more flummoxed when the Master of Ships visited him personally and strongly suggested that he make a detour to Storm’s End before returning to the Reach. 

The girl had been around eight years old when she rode into Storm’s End on the wagon-seat beside her grandfather. She was slender, fit, and had thick hair the colour of dark-ale. She had Gendry’s blue eyes, strong brow, chin, and his slightly stick-out ears. Looking at her, Gendry had instantly thought of himself as he was when he was sold to the Night’s Watch: she seethed with resentment. She also shrank away from any man who wasn’t her grandfather. Old Arlen had bowed to him fawningly and then done a double-take as he registered the similarities between his granddaughter and the Lord standing before him. After questioning the peddlar closely about the timeline of events leading up to the child’s birth, Gendry insisted he stay on at Storm’s End while he sent an emissary out to Galla in the Reach to confirm that her recollection of her time with him matched his own: it did, and she told him to keep her.

“Her own mother doesn’t want her?” Arya asked indignantly, stopping in her tracks and turning to him.

“I think they were very close, once,” Gendry replied, “Tytha, her mother, Old Arlen, and her younger half-brother Axen. They travelled together for years. When she talks, she talks about them a great deal.”

“What happened?”

“Your sister thinks someone may have…mistreated…her.”

The sorrow in Gendry’s eyes brought a cold-fury unlike any she’d felt in years rising, throbbing in her veins. She didn’t know this girl but she was Gendry’s, and Gendry was part of her pack. “Is that someone still breathing?” she nearly growled.

Gendry’s eyes widened at her tone, “I suppose whoever it was is somewhere in The Reach.” 

“You don’t know who it was? Didn’t have him killed?”

“My assassin was out of the kingdoms,” he retorted. “No, Arya. For one thing I’ve been trying to get to know her—make her feel safe here, with me. And she’s very withdrawn. For another, well, she hasn’t said…we don’t know exactly what…there’s no proof…we’re guessing.” 

Arya was thinking of the girls she’d observed in Braavos, before taking Meryn Trant’s life. She was thinking of how it felt to be the girl she’d disguised herself as in order to take that life. She was thinking of Sansa. Then she thought of how each night on their way to the Wall, Gendry slept. He slept in Harrenhal despite the threat and privation. He slept the night before the battle with the dead. He was someone who could sleep in spite of the awful around him and the images behind his closed eyes. He always had been. She couldn’t fault him for it. But that wasn’t her. With the beginnings of a plan hatching in the depths of her mind she asked, “What’s been done for her?”

“She’s happier than she was, but she’s cautious. Reserved. I sat down with her—with Old Arlen before he left—and explained who I was and asked her if she’d mind staying—until her grandfather’s next circuit—to get to know me and her sister. That she’d get to study, and ride, and wear fine clothes. She’s fond enough of Old Arlen, but she agreed. I think it was the certain distance from The Reach that swayed her more than anything. He’s been back once and offered to take her with him if she wanted to go. She didn’t. I think it was Fyffe and her horse more than me that decided her,” he shrugged, and Arya marked his attempt at indifference. “She dotes on Fyffe. Both Septa Alynne and Maester Brymar admire her studiousness and the example she sets for her sister. She excels at riding. I caught her tilting at rings only a few days ago. There’s a stubbornness in her when she practices that reminds me of you.”

Arya snorted, “Like yourself, more like.” They resumed their pacing, but when they reached the windswept solitude of the Keep’s sea-facing side, Arya placed a hand firmly on Gendry’s arm, halting them. “I want to know your family and be here with you, but I can’t be more or less than I am. And I will go again.”

Gendry’s eager eyes fastened themselves on hers, “I don’t expect you to be anyone but yourself. But yourself _is_ here _now_.” He kissed her hungrily and they were lost in each other’s breath and lips, tongues, teeth and grasping hands for quite some time. When they broke apart at last, both panting, foreheads touching, holding each other up, Gendry murmured, “Keep coming back, Arya. Whatever else comes, I need you to keep coming back.” She nodded, fumbling with the ties of the cloak he’d thrown on before they came outside. His hands were yanking at her belt as he bent to kiss her jaw and neck, before returning to her lips. She had his shirt off and it caught the wind as she tossed it, disappearing over the parapet wall. Giddy with desire, they both laughed. He shucked her upper leathers to the ground and ran his hands up under her chemise, his palms cupping and kneading her breasts as he walked her backward against the stairwell wall. His fingertips found the lines of a new scar, curving over her left breast: it had been a deep wound. His hesitancy as his fingers travelled the length of it, wondering about what had caused it, caught her attention and she brought one of her own hands over his, encouraging him to touch her, harder. He did. Thumbing her nipples, she arched into his hands. “I dreamed of you,” he whispered against her neck between long lingering kisses, “I dreamed of you and our time on your ship…our night at Winterfell…and how I would love you if you ever came home.” One of his hands had found its way inside her breeches. He smiled against her lips as he felt how wet she was for him. He curled a knuckle into her, rubbing circles, then shifted, dipping his fingers into her core, feeling her thighs clench and thrust against his hand. Her head was thrown back against the wall, satisfaction suffusing her features. Gendry found himself suddenly stilled by how unguarded her expression was. She’d been holding herself so tightly but had now, in this moment, let all else fall away. This was why she’d returned to him. The way he could make her feel. 

Suddenly he was furious. Furious that she had kept them both from feeling all of this for so long. Furious that he knew she would do it again. Furious that in the midst of their reunion he was thinking about her departure. Furious that he knew he would always serve her when he served no one else. Furious that she would always serve herself before she would serve him. Furious that he would always do the same. His fingers ceased their movements and he pulled away, wiping his fingers on his breeches. Her eyes opened, glazed and confused by his sudden withdrawal and the chill that accompanied it. “Gendry?” she breathed.

The hand that had been pleasuring her clenched into a fist and plowed itself into the wooden trellis that sheltered the stairwell door. It splintered and a section of the vines climbing it sagged sadly, now loose and trailing, unfettered. “Gods, I want you too much!” Gendry barked, frustration steaming from him like vapor from a hot iron plunged in water. 

Arya’s face took on a smug yet mystified expression, “Is it bad to want me?” she asked, “I want you too. _Been_ wanting you since we dressed for our farewell in Oldtown. Was very much enjoying the way you were making me feel too, before you took a sudden dislike to the plants.” His outburst had made her even more aroused, if it were possible. She could feel it pooling between her legs.

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He’d moved to the low wall facing Shipbreaker Bay and gripped it so hard a trickle of mortar dusted to the stone floor.

Arya wasn’t certain what was going on, but she’d known that slipping back into the easy familiarity they’d found in her ship’s cabin wouldn’t be simple after all these years. Although she was inclined to tease him, she opted, instead, for sincerity, “Gendry? No one in the whole world makes me feel the way you do. That’s not embroidery. There are only thirty-eight people in Westeros—in the world maybe—right now who could even make a claim like that. I’m one of them. I’ve been around the whole ruddy world. Sailed right ‘round it. Met people on the farthest shores of Essos, Ulthos, Sothoryos and in lands you haven’t heard of yet. And the God of Death comes for all of them: came for me a few more times as well. But I’m here because I promised you that I would come back. I wanted to come back. And because no matter how many years I’m away from you--I want you, you stupid bloody man.”

His shoulders flexed and he smacked his palm against the ledge of the wall, “I can’t love you thinking about you leaving me again.”

“Then don’t think about that, you idiot!”

“I can’t stop.”

“Maybe…,” the image of his fist shattering the trellis and his palm battering the wall brought a new, enticing idea to Arya’s mind. She walked closer to him saying, “Maybe it’s not about loving right now. Maybe it’s about being angry with me. Show me how angry you are with me,” she dared, her voice husky with desire. Placing one hand on his lower back she traced the other across his shoulders and down his bicep, “Show me how it feels. Punish me. For being…gone.” She’d leaned in, breathing the last word against his ear. He spun toward her, catching the arm that had been trailing his and pulling her roughly between himself and the wall to the sea. There was steel in his eyes and Arya could feel the fight sing in her blood as he rapidly unlaced his own breeches. She shimmied out of hers and they had barely slithered to the ground before he had her bent backwards over the wall, sheathing himself deep inside her in one fierce thrust. An involuntary cry sprang from Arya’s throat. Her legs scrabbled to catch themselves around his hips; feet clasping around his buttocks; her backside scraping against the stone wall. She snatched at his upper arm with one hand, while the other clutched at the lip of the stone wall beneath her, the gritty stone embedding itself in her palm. His strength was exhilarating. He had one hand at her throat as the other tore the chemise from her body, the worn material rending and shredding as he yanked it free, discarding it over the edge. He clutched at her hip, driving into her again and again and again, pounding like the waves against the rocks far below. The thrill of how precariously she was positioned only added to her pleasure because she knew—she _knew_—despite his ferocity that she was safe. The fury etched into his features as his eyes bore into hers with each snap of his hips wasn’t fading, but in the face of it, with her body singing like it hadn’t in years, Arya couldn’t help a self-satisfied leer spreading across her own. She risked letting go of the ledge, gliding her hand upwards across her belly to squeeze her breast. “You couldn’t touch me…like this…” she panted. Gendry’s narrowed eyes flared with hunger. She couldn’t resist taunting him, pushing further into his rage. “Or this…” her hand trailed itself down over her belly and began massaging herself above where they were joined. He rumbled a deep-throated snarl. “You told me…you were going…to leave…me…once. Stay…with the Brotherhood. Smith for…them,” she was panting now, he was riding her hard and she could feel herself coming closer than ever to the edge. “You told me…then…you’d never serve…again. But what…My Lord…do you call…_this_?” With her last word she’d summoned all of the muscles in her core, clenched her legs, levered herself fully upright against him and ground her pubic bone against his. Her triumphant cry of release rang back over his shoulder, startling a flight of birds from the rookery. His hips stuttered and his own shout disappeared out over the sea before he buried his face in her shoulder, shaking. Now seated on the ledge of the wall, his cock still pulsing inside her, her backside chafed raw against the rough stone, Arya stroked his back, holding him tightly against her.

When he slipped free of her, Gendry turned away, wiping his eyes. He glanced at her, abashed, and was surprised to see that there were tears on her cheeks too. But she was smiling at him with a face utterly infused by love. 

“Ours is the fury,” she said, raising her hands to thumb away the remaining tears from his cheeks and beard. “Maybe some of this…passion…between us exists because we know it will end. But it’s not going to end any time soon. I’ve just arrived. My feet aren’t itchy to go. The rest of me is itchy…for you.” He snorted. She kissed him gently then suggested, “Let’s go back to your room. We can break-in your bed. And this time we can love.” 

They loved until they slept.


	2. Introductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya becomes accustomed to life at Storm's End.

Arya was seated by the bedchamber fire lacing her boots when she heard the door from the solar creak open. She froze. A beaming young face appeared and she held her breath as the girl started to tiptoe into the room. A mischievous glint appeared in the girl’s expression as she headed straight for Gendry’s sleeping form in the bed. Arya knew exactly what the girl was about to do. She’d done it herself countless times: to her parents, Robb, Jon, Sansa, even Theon when she was very young. By the time she was this girl’s age, however, Bran had taken over early morning shenanigans. And Rickon had done it to her. But before the girl could launch herself onto her sleeping parent, she caught sight of Arya out of the corner of her eye and stopped, turning astonished blue-eyes in her direction, her mouth agape. 

Her face was a miniature mirror of her father’s but cherubic. Arya felt the memory of her own early childhood flitting inside her as she gazed at this tiny reiteration of her lover. What he might have been if he’d had then what he had now. What she would have been if…. But it was best not to travel that road of ‘ifs’ and ‘mights.' They were both the people they were and they had found each other. She put a finger to her own lips and rose, moving to the door and gesturing for the child to follow her. To her surprise, the girl did, and silently. After crossing the threshold into the solar, the girl could hold her tongue no longer than a few paces before she blurted, “You’re Arya Stark, aren’t you? Did you just arrive? Does Papa know you’re here? Do you want to come meet my pup, Nymeria? Papa told me tales of your wolf—and your brother’s. Mine’s ever so soft and sweet.” The girl grinned up at Arya, evidently delighted by her presence. 

“Why do you think I’m Arya Stark?” Arya asked carefully, butterflies careening around her chest at the complete sangfroid of this small person. 

“Papa always said that you come and go like a shadow in a storm so someday I might find you here and if I did, I should make you very welcome. Oh! But first I’m supposed to say, ‘Hello, my lady, I’m Fyffe Baratheon, Lord Gendry’s legitimized daughter, it’s nice to meet you!’” She dropped a quick curtsey then continued, “You’re the only person I’ve ever found in Papa’s room in the morning who wasn’t Papa. Not even Tytha comes here. Just me. Oh, the maids come all at once each day of course, but Papa’s never here then. That’s why Papa’s rooms are the best place to hide from everyone. Sometimes you just need space to be by yourself, don’t you think, my lady?”

Arya couldn’t help but smile back at the cheerful creature. “You’re right on all counts. It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Fyffe. I would like to meet your pup, but just now I think I’m in need of some breakfast. Would you show me the way to the hall?”

“Oh, no, you don’t!” came a voice from behind the partially-open door. When had he awoken? How long had he been listening? The door opened wide and Lady Fyffe launched herself into Gendry’s arms for a good morning hug in an utterly unladylike manner. “Good morning, Wildfire,” he said, giving Fyffe a hearty kiss on the cheek. She giggled and snuggled into him. “Already introduced yourself to Arya I see.” She nodded. Arya nodded. “We’re going to eat privately this morning. Go rouse Tytha and tell her we’ll join you in the nursery solar. You can bring Nymeria. And make sure Septa Alynne knows that she’ll need to send for enough food for four.” 

Watching his eyes dance at her over his daughter’s shoulder made Arya, to her complete chagrin, want to drag him back to bed immediately. How could watching him with his daughter bring back all the best memories of her own father, and still make her ache to bed him? She felt mildly disgusted with herself.

Fyffe bobbed a hasty curtsy to Arya before darting off at high speed. Gendry looked at her, doubt clouding his features as he registered her sheepish expression, “She’s not so intimidating, is she?”

Shaking her head, Arya hooked a finger into his breeches, pulling him closer. “She made me remember things I’d forgotten, that’s all.” He drew her into a hug. She sniffed him. “You smell…delicious in the morning…,” she took the opportunity to lick the hollow at his throat, making her way up his neck, along his jaw, and finally nibbling at his lips. Gendry groaned against her mouth, “There’s no time, Arya.” 

She pushed him backwards through the door, into the bedchamber. Kicking the door closed behind her, she dropped to her knees, tugging his breeches down with her. 

“Arya. We’ve got to…get…,” words failed him as he felt her laughing breath ghost across his sensitive skin.

“Let them wait,” she smirked up at him, her hands on the back of his thighs as she took his cock into her mouth. Instantly, he was hard. His eyes closed briefly and his breathing faltered. She tongued him, swirling and twisting and sucking as she moved up and down his length. His hands came to tangle in her unbound hair. She held him, preventing him from moving the way he would like. She was _Arya Fucking Stark_ and she was on her knees before him and as he met her eyes, he felt like a god—like all the gods. She cupped a hand between his legs and began to gently massage his stones as she focused her accelerated tongue movements at his tip. “Arya…I…,” he shuddered and groaned, she sucked him deep and he exploded. He felt her grip his hips more firmly as he watched her throat swallow, swallow, swallow. Licking her lips, she rose gracefully from the floor and pulled his lips to her own, giving him a deep, searching kiss. He could taste himself. At last she pulled away, planted a quick playful kiss on the tip of his nose and said, “I’d like to have more of you, but that will have to do. I’ve got a direwolf to inspect. Now get your bloody pants on!” 

Gendry nearly choked with laughter at the inverted echo of their first night together as he quickly laced his breeches.

~~~~~~~

It wasn’t a direwolf, of course. But Nymeria was a lively, playful pup that brought light-hearted distraction to the family breakfast. The Septa had been waiting with the girls and the food by the time they arrived arm-in-arm. She looked narrowly at their entwined fingers and turned inquiring eyes on Lord Baratheon. “Septa Alynne, it is my greatest pleasure to introduce you to Lady Arya Stark. Lady Arya, Septa Alynne sees to the care and instruction of my children.”

It was all Arya could do not to roll her eyes or poke him in the ribs at the formality. His house, his bloody rules. Instead, she inclined her head politely and said, “I’m sure you’re doing a fine job, Septa Alynne. My own Septa wasn’t terribly successful with me.” 

Gendry caught the rueful look in her eye and brought her hand to his lips saying, “You’re exactly who you’re supposed to be, milady.” 

The Septa’s cheeks flushed. This was a side of her Lord she had never seen. She wasn’t quite certain it was decent. But there was no doubt that lords and ladies would do as they would and the two in front of her were positively radiating happiness. She excused herself from the room. 

Fyffe grabbed Arya’s hand and dragged her away from Gendry to show her the pup. Gendry put his hand lightly on Tytha’s shoulder and wished her good morning before taking a seat at the table and suggesting that they all begin the meal. The food was excellent and there was much banter and laughter between Gendry and Fyffe with Tytha dutifully correcting Fyffe’s wilder outbursts with good-humoured patience as an older sister should. Arya couldn’t help but notice the distance that Tytha maintained between herself and Gendry. She smiled at him, she seemed pleased to listen to him, she deferred to him, but it was such a contrast to the way Fyffe would snuggle into him at every opportunity. Fyffe would snuggle into Tytha too, and she seemed to relish that: petting her hair and flicking her nose. But then, Fyffe seemed happy to snuggle into everyone. By the end of breakfast, she was sitting in Arya’s lap, feeding scraps to Nymeria and asking so many questions that Arya wasn’t certain her mind could process one before the next was asked. She felt a new appreciation for her own mother’s forbearance. 

Looking across the table, Gendry felt so happy it terrified him. He’d never had this much before. He’d had nothing and now he had everything and it was more than he’d ever dreamed. He glanced at Tytha. She was smiling at something Fyffe had said. He wished she would smile more and that she would let him into her world the way Fyffe did. “There’s always something wanting,” he ruminated.

~~~~~~~

Tytha was riding circles in the ring when Arya stopped to watch her. Her hair streamed out behind her in the wind as, with a look of intense determination, she maneuvered herself into a crouching pose on the back of the trotting horse. She was stunt riding. Arya was impressed. For anyone of ten to have the level of skill she was witnessing took a more-than-fair amount of confidence, determination, and practice. As the girl resumed her seat, Arya applauded, slowly, the way her own father had done when he caught her shooting targets at Winterfell. Tytha’s head snapped in her direction, surprised. Arya approached the fence and Tytha pulled the horse to a halt in front of her. 

“That was well done,” Arya congratulated her, “Your mount must feel very comfortable with you; she stayed so steady.”

Tytha acknowledged the compliment with a short nod of her head, “Thank you, my lady. I was practicing long before father gifted me Offstyd. I taught myself on grandfather’s mule when I was very small…” a wistful look came into her eyes, followed by a frown and a shiver before she resumed, “Please don’t tell him. He doesn’t know and I’m not sure he’d be pleased.”

Arya barked an uproarious laugh, causing Tytha to frown and look puzzled. “Oh, Lady Tytha!” Arya wheezed when she caught her breath, “Come walk with me. I’ll tell you a few things you may not know about your father.”

They walked away from the training grounds, and Arya let the young girl direct their steps as she would. They meandered into the glass-enclosed kitchen gardens which allowed them to pilfer some snacks to nibble as they talked. “He wasn’t always a lord, you know. He grew up orphaned in the slums of Flea Bottom. When I first knew him, he was a smith’s apprentice sold north to the Wall. I was about a year older than you then and disguised as a boy. He stood up for me when he didn’t know a thing about me and he guessed my secret but kept it to himself.”

Tytha nodded thoughtfully and asked, “Why were you disguised as a boy, my lady?”

“You can call me Arya, Lady Tytha; I’m no lady.”

“Father said we’re to call you so.”

“Your father is sometimes full of horseshit. Sorry! Don’t tell him I said that.” Arya looked rueful at the gleefully shocked expression Tytha cast in her direction. She continued, “It was safer for me not to be a girl. I was running away from people who wanted to do me harm. They had killed my father.” 

Tytha sat down suddenly on the ledge of one of the garden boxes. “And father helped you?”

“He became my family. Our paths went in different directions for a time, but he found my brother and helped him. And then I found them both and we helped each other. That’s what family does. They help each other and give each other a safe place to call home.” Arya sat beside the girl who was anxiously stripping leaves from a bean vine. Arya risked placing a quieting hand over one of Tytha’s as she said, “I think, maybe, you haven’t always had family that worked that way?” Tytha went still. Arya squeezed the girl’s hand tightly for a moment before she stood and said, “I found that learning to fight helped me. If you want to train with me, I’d appreciate a partner. I don’t know many people at Storm’s End yet, and your father is too busy to spar with me every morning. If you’d like to learn, I’ll teach you while I’m here.”

Tytha’s face lit up. “Septa Alynne said that you’re the Hero of Winterfell, one of the greatest warriors in Westeros, my lady! It would be an honour.”

“We’ll start tomorrow before breakfast.”

~~~~~~~

It had taken no time at all for Arya to think of Gendry’s rooms as their rooms; of his bed as their bed. They had made a show of her arrival that first day. When Arya’s men arrived at the gate with her trunks from the ship, she’d been there to greet them. They had proceeded to the Round Hall, where Gendry was seated on the Throne of the Stormkings and requested an audience. As she was announced, Gendry had risen from the throne and descended from the dias, greeting her with a sweeping bow and pressing the back of her hand to his lips. The assembled throng had gasped and broken into astonished twittering. The formality irked her, but the pantomime was entertaining, and Arya understood why it was necessary. Westeros had changed, but it hadn’t changed that much. Later, the steward had inquired as to which rooms should be made up for Lady Stark. Gendry had—shamelessly—turned to her in front of everyone and inquired, “Where do you wish, milady?” She had glared at his twinkling eyes before realizing that here, for a man in his position, there could be no secrets, and yet he was giving her what choice he could about how their relationship would be perceived. She had met his challenge and, with a saucy tilt to her head, claimed the vacant Lady’s apartments across the corridor from his. There had been a great deal of muttering throughout the Hall when she had done so, but she didn’t care. The shit-eating grin that overwhelmed Gendry’s expression was worth it—it was so at odds with his otherwise lordly manner. Besides, there was no point in pretending to be something that she wasn’t, nor in avoiding claiming what she already was: she was the Lord’s Lady here, regardless of their marital status or her long absence. He’d said as much the night before. More to the point, as long as she maintained rooms other than his, there was nothing to say to the outside world that they were anything more than close friends…possibly courting. Thus, the Lady’s apartments were allotted for her personal use, but each and every night they’d lain together in his bed…or elsewhere. There wasn’t a surface in his rooms they hadn’t claimed—the hearth rug, the walls, the desk, chairs, tables, sideboard, the sill, the settle, the floor—not a single surface that wouldn’t stir echoes of their passion in his memory when, eventually, she would go away again. 

Arya had been surprised to find a scroll-worked box on the nightstand with a note for her when she’d arrived in those chambers ahead of him that first night. Upon opening it, she’d discovered it to be full of moon-tea. She had intended to see about acquiring some as soon as possible, but Gendry had already managed it. The fact that they hadn’t spoken of it—that in the course of the day he’d just assumed that of course she would need it made her glow inside. She consumed a dose each evening after dinner, and the box was never more than half-empty before it was magically replenished.

Within the first moon their days had fallen into a pattern. Arya would rise early to train with Tytha each morning before joining Gendry and Fyffe at the high table in in the Round Hall for breakfast. The rest of the morning was spent in whatever individual tasks each needed to perform: Gendry had hearings, and meetings, and councils and rounds to make. Arya trained, sent ravens, met with her captain to discuss the ongoing repairs and maintenance of her ship, and commissioned various craftspeople to fashion gifts to present to her siblings when the time came. The girls took their studies with Maester Brymar. They would all come together to dine publicly each evening, and retired to the nursery solar to share their adventures before Septa Alynne appeared to put the girls to bed. 

As Tytha’s skills increased so did her confidence. Arya felt strangely proud, meeting Gendry’s smiling eyes over Tytha’s head one evening, as the girl chattered at her father regaling him with the challenges of learning to shoot and water-dance. She was no longer a child avoiding attention and responding only when asked. She was engaged. She was seeking approval and she was getting it. Twice a week, Arya would also train with Fyffe—she was enthusiastic, but far less focused than her sister and often, like as not, they would end up playing games with Nymeria. 

For his part, Gendry was astonished at how quickly Arya’s efforts wrought change in his quiet, withdrawn, eldest child. He dared to ask, one morning, if Tytha would show him her trick-riding later in the day. She had reached out to grasp his hand excitedly saying, “Oh! Please do come, Father! Arya says that in a week’s time she thinks I’ll be able to try shooting from horseback—only shafts, and in stirrups of course—to start. But I may need a different saddle. You might have ideas to make it work better.” He had watched Tytha as she rode, his heart in his throat as she shifted and hung sideways off the galloping horse to retrieve blades from the ground. She was an utterly different child on horseback: daring and bold. His eyes alight with pride, he cheered loudly as, with perfect precision, she lanced her final spear through the rings. Hearing his roar of approval, Tytha had clambered down from her horse and thrown her arms joyfully around him, for the first time in their acquaintance. 

That night, as he lay with Arya in his arms he’d murmured, “Thank you for Tytha.” 

Arya smiled against his chest, “She’s starting to feel in control. That’s all. But you’re welcome. She’s very skilled with a spear.”

“If anyone would know about that, it’s you,” he allowed, pulling her closer against him and kissing her lazily. Arya suddenly tensed, rousing him from bliss, “What’s wrong?” he asked.

She had rolled away from him and was duck-footing it across the chamber to the smallest of her trunks—the only one she kept tucked away in his rooms. She’d hunched her shoulders slightly at his question, but replied, “My moon time. I just need…” she gestured vaguely without meeting his eyes. If she had looked, she’d have seen that they’d widened and cast themselves to her unclad thighs. “Does that mean we can’t…?” his voice was tinged with disappointment. 

Her eyes flew to his in shock. “Do you want to…?”

“I always want to, Arya. I’ve years of wanting pent up. If I had no other obligations and didn’t need to sleep or eat—if I _could_—I’d have you every moment of the day. Why would your moon blood make any difference?” 

He had the stamina—that part didn’t shock her, but… Arya’s mouth sported an extremely wry slant as she answered, “It will be bloody.”

“When has blood ever bothered you?” Gendry snorted, “You’re the bloodiest woman in Westeros.”

Her eyebrow rose. “The maids will have a terrible time in the morning and everyone will know I slept here.”

“Most of them already suspect.”

“But they don’t _know_. You really want…”

“I really want you, milady.” 

Amusement tugged at the corners of Arya’s mouth. “I really want you too. I mean,” she clarified, “There’s wanting you…and then there’s _wanting you_. Since these,” she made a sweeping motion, indicating the scars on her abdomen, “I’ve never flowered regularly. And it’s always been uncomfortable. But for whatever reason it often makes me want to…relive our time together. And that makes me more...comfortable.”

“You would relive it?” he asked, his voice low, “How?”

She nodded, approaching the bed. “I’d be in my cabin thinking of you and touching…” her hand lowered to stroke her own curls and dip into the space between her thighs, circling. Her other hand rose to cup her breast, fondling it. Her head tilted with pleasure. Gendry’s breath caught and his cock twitched as he watched her touching herself. “The way your hands felt on my skin, my scars, my hips…” she traced each part as she named it. Her eyes opened suddenly, drilling into his, “The look in your eyes each time you arched inside me. It made me ache for you.” 

Gendry cleared his throat, his pulse racing. He could see not only the familiar wetness of her arousal stringing between her legs, but streaks of her blood as well. Maybe it was strange that it aroused him. Maybe it wasn’t. In any case, he threw off the sheets that had been covering him, pulled himself to the edge of the bed and reached out, hauling her close between his knees. He dipped his head to kiss her belly, his tongue laving into her navel and nibbling the contours of each of her scars. He heard her breath catch and exhale in a protracted, blissful sigh as her hands came to cradle his head, her fingertips etching lightning trails into his scalp and neck. He spent longer nuzzling at her breasts than usual, teasing each nipple with his teeth and tongue and pausing, awestruck, to gaze up at her from between them when he needed to catch his breath. He would never get enough of Arya’s face when he was pleasuring her—there was such an astonishing peace about her in these moments that was never present otherwise. The soft plop of liquid landing on stone in the silence between her breaths made him look down. He looked back up to find her blushing furiously, her face a grimace of distaste. His hands settled on her backside pulling her closer, “I think it’s time to bloody my sword, milady,” he smirked suggestively, leaning back slightly and maneuvering her into his lap. A second drop fell to the floor as he positioned her hips. She swatted his shoulder, “I’m making a mess.” He grinned, “You’ve always been good at that.” He slid into her and she was slipperier than she had ever felt before. Hotter too. And apparently more sensitive. She didn’t usually cry out until she was nearing her peak but this time she moaned softly and rhythmically into his shoulder each time he flexed his hips, rocking her slowly against him. He could feel the hot wetness pooling between them, eventually seeping around his stem, between his stones. He stayed deep inside her, his hands cradling her backside, rotating her against him until—with a strangled cry, she bit into his neck and clutched his shoulders—a gush bathing him in honey and blood. Her insides fluttering around him, he pulled her tight and spent himself. 

He’d stood, still inside her, turned, and laid her gently sideways on the bed before pulling out and stepping away to the washstand. Arya hadn’t felt boneless in quite this way before. She could feel everything—him, her, the promise of them both—mingled and flowing freely between her thighs. She felt no embarrassment, only a magnificent lethargy as he returned and bent to clean her inner thighs with a damp cloth. Finished, he swabbed briefly at the floor, and then as he rose, she caught sight of his cock still coated with blood. An involuntary aftershock of pleasure convulsed her and her back arched from the bed, prompting another flush of fluids from her body. Still quivering, she turned her face away, scandalized by her body’s reaction. With a soft, incredulous chuckle, Gendry marveled, “Did you…just…? I didn’t even touch you. You just looked at me and…unraveled.” 

“Don’t get cocky,” she muttered between her fingers. She could feel his curious eyes on her, though she couldn’t meet them. Seeing him that way she’d felt the same carnal fulfillment as when she had slit the deserving throats of those on her long-ago list…and her body had embraced it. 

His hands were gentle, cleaning her again before handing her a different towel and fresh undergarments, then returning to the washbasin. Dressing herself, she watched him wash. There wasn’t a trace of distaste. He looked…gratified…somehow. 

“It really doesn’t bother you?” she asked at last.

He stopped his ablutions, turning halfway toward her. “Why do you seem to think it should?”

Arya thought of her first flowering. That had bothered her. She’d known, roughly, what was happening. It had been another way her girl’s body betrayed her when she needed to be nothing more than a boy on the road. She’d been too young when she left Winterfell for her mother or Septa Mordane to have had that talk with her. When it happened, she’d been forced to pilfer and cobble together supplies from a tavern where The Hound stopped for a meal. And it had never been anyone’s business but her own ever since. It never occurred to her that it might be something…empowering. 

He was still gazing at her in silence, waiting, toweling himself absently. 

“It’s just…not something I thought I’d share with anyone. Ever. Have you…before?” 

“No,” Gendry admitted, slinging his towel over the washbasin and coming to sit beside her on the bed, “But, with you, the idea of it…,” his brow furrowed as he tried to muster his thoughts. Arya waited, fascinated by the interplay of emotions across his face as he brooded. At long-last his expression cleared. He clapped his hand companionably on her knee and asked, “Do you remember telling Anguy and I that you didn’t like the Red Witch and him saying ‘That’s because you’re a girl’?”

A slight frown of distaste appeared between her brows, “He meant that I was jealous of how you all looked at her.”

“Were you?” Gendry asked.

“I didn’t know then that I was, but it was also more than that.”

Gendry’s brow rose in surprise at her admission, then carried on: “Her power. To be a woman who could get and take what she wanted when you couldn’t—no matter how hard you stomped your feet.” He nudged playfully against her side, smiling at the memory of her outburst to keep him. She cracked a half-smile. Sobering, he went on, “I won’t grant much to the Red Witch, but she used three leeches of my blood to destroy three kings. Blood has power.”

Arya frowned. One of those kings had been Robb. Maybe there was an intimacy in blood that she hadn’t considered.

“And a part of you wanted my…power?” She asked, doubt and suspicion clouding her face.

“A little? I guess? I don’t have a good answer here, Arya. Whatever power I’ve ever had has always been yours to wield.”

She considered his words. “Women’s blood seems…disquieting to most men.”

“What men?”

“I remember the boys…”

Gendry interjected, “Jon and Bran?”

“No!” Arya conceded, laughing, “Bran was too young and Jon has always been very…Northern…about relationships.”

“Does ‘Northern’ mean ‘private’?” Gendry couldn’t help but tease, “If so, then the family resemblance is strong.”

Arya tossed a pillow at him. He batted it away, snickering. 

Arya carried on as though he hadn’t interrupted, “It was Theon mostly. Theon liked girls. I mean, he _really_ liked girls. You remember him?” 

Gendry nodded. 

“He was different then. But before, he was always encouraging Robb to go out to the village with him and they would come back at all hours, in high spirits, telling jokes. Robb cuffed him upside the head once and turned bright red when he caught me within earshot.” The corners of her mouth turned up briefly at the memory. “I heard jokes like those again in the Braavosi brothels. Theon talked a lot of guff about maids who hadn’t gone with anyone before. He didn’t prefer them: too much mess. But in the brothels and pleasure houses, it was the opposite. There were men who only wanted a girl’s first blood. Sometimes the madams would play tricks and pass off a younger girl’s moon blood as her first time, but mostly the girls didn’t work when they were flowering. It wasn’t preferred: too much mess.” 

Gendry’s gaze fixed into the distance as she spoke. He’d never asked for the details of her life before returning to Winterfell. He’d assumed that when or if she wanted to tell him, she would. And now she was. She’d seen so much more than he could imagine and was stronger than anyone else he knew. And still, in sudden surprising moments like this, when she laid aside her bravado and was just herself all he wanted in the world was to protect her from the world she knew better than he did. 

Arya mused, “When his bride bleeds a man is honoured. If his wife bleeds, he hasn’t served her properly or she has failed to provide him a child. When his daughter flowers it means she’s ready to be bartered away to another man. If his whore bleeds he’s inconvenienced but if she doesn’t, there’s a bastard to complicate his life. Women’s blood is all about men’s power.”

“Everything you are isn’t between your legs. You know that, Arya.”

Hesitantly, her fingers picking absently at a loose thread in the sheets, she disclosed, “I know. But tonight…it made me feel powerful. Seeing you…anointed…like that. It was the strike and release of slitting a man’s throat. Feeling his life…go. It’s what made me…” she couldn’t finish the sentence or make herself meet his eyes.

Gendry could see exactly what unsettled her and although it ran a cold hand along his spine, it also made his heartbeat quicken and desire tug again low in his belly. He’d felt something similar as he’d tended to her—watching their mingled fluids quit her body—the terrible beauty and unfulfilled promise of it. He clasped a hand behind her neck, turning her to face him, “You are the most terrifyingly powerful woman I’ve ever known. And you make me feel powerful seeing myself as you see me. If you take power from seeing me painted in your blood...” He stood, cockstand evident, “My sword is ready for battle again as soon as you are, milady.”


	3. Misapprehensions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Passion and parenting unfortunately collide with dire consequences. Warning: Alludes to childhood trauma and sexual assault.

Tytha was making great strides. Training with Arya that morning she had managed, for the first time, to disarm her. Afterwards, Arya took her to the kitchens to acquire some sweets as a reward and they had walked the battlements, gazing at the sea. “Do you want to be a knight?” Arya asked. “My brother, Bran—the King, his Captain of the Kingsguard is a woman. You’re certainly talented enough on horseback. I could write and see if she’d be interested in taking you on as a squire in a few years…with your father’s permission, of course.”

“Would I have to leave Storm’s End, my lady?” Tytha asked timidly.

“Would that bother you? You’re bold enough in the ring and bolder than most when you’re standing on horseback like a Dothraki screamer.” 

“I saw one, once,” Tytha smiled at the memory, “He rode in a tourney where grandfather traded.”

Intrigued, Arya asked, “When was that?” Tytha rarely spoke about her life before Storm’s End.

“I think I was five? Axen wandered away from the wheelhouse and it was my job to mind him while grandfather and mama worked. I caught him just before he crawled under the fence to the lists. But the horses were so beautiful—the way they moved. I held his little hand tight and watched them challenge and charge all afternoon. Axen fell asleep, but he woke when the Dothraki came charging down the lists. I’d never seen anything like it.”

“Is that what made you start stunt-riding?”

“Oh no, my lady! I did that before! Grandfather says that from the time I could sit, I was always wanting up on the mules. When Axen was a baby mama was always saying, “My lap is taken and my hands aren’t free,” and I got to ride them more. There wasn’t room on the wheelhouse seat. Sometimes the trips were long and my rear got sore so I found other ways to ride. Balancing between the mules was my favourite. But the Dothraki gave me ideas. What does a knight do?”

“They’re supposed to be honest, and loyal, and protect others. They joust and compete in tournaments and, well, I’m not a knight. Ser Brienne would know better.” 

Tytha gave it some thought, “I like training with you and riding. But I like my lessons and being with Fyffe too.”

Arya smiled at her thoughtful countenance, “You don’t have to decide anything. But winter is coming. Those are my family’s words. It’s never wrong to prepare.”

~~~~~~~

Several days later, on her way to the stables, Tytha overheard two groomsmen:

> _“Word is they got a raven, you know. Mayhap the Broken King got word that his Lordship’s broken Queen Alysanne’s Laws.”_
> 
> _“What’re you on about?” asked his companion._
> 
> _“You seen them spar in the yard. Had to go find my woman more than once myself after watching them at it.”_
> 
> _“Sparring’s sparring. That don’t mean…”_
> 
> _“You seen the way his lordship looks at her after? No way in seven hells he’s not!” The groom smirked. _
> 
> _“Besides, my woman works in the laundry. She said bloody sheets come down from the Lord’s Chamber a moon or so ago.” Adopting a singsong voice he proclaimed, “’A bride’s maidenhead belongs to her husband. Any man--lord or peasant--taking a woman on her wedding night or any other is guilty of rape.’ I hain’t seen no wedding celebrations, have you? She’s the king’s bleedin’ sister.”_

Tytha had retreated rapidly from the stables, her face aflame, heart racing, and a sickening terror churning in her belly. That _couldn’t_ be true. Could it? Secreting herself in the nearest empty storeroom she could find, she had folded herself between the barrels, hugging herself, her mind racing. Arya trusted him. She’d known him a long time. She was a hero in two kingdoms and had survived sailing to the ends of the earth. Arya was happy with Father. She wouldn’t be if… And Father adored Arya. Respected Arya. She’d known that before she’d ever met her from the way he talked about her as if she were just in the next room, or away visiting friends. He would never do… Memories of what she had seen in The Reach assailed her and she sat, shaking, for some time. Emerging whey-faced but outwardly calm she had taken herself to the training grounds to swing swords until she was stumbling with exhaustion. She left with her mouth fixed in a firm line, determined to think no more about any of it.

But she had thought more of it. She asked Maester Brymar during lessons about Queen Alysanne’s Laws. He explained that they sprang from the great conciliation of laws during the reign of Jaehaerys I and enshrined in the laws of the Seven Kingdoms (as they then were) measures meant to protect the women of the realm. He did not go into great detail. She was a quick-witted child, but a child of only ten years all the same and there were other topics in which he felt her to be more needful of instruction. What’s more, she looked exhausted. 

Then, that morning, after an uneasy night, she had risen earlier than usual and dressed for training. She concluded that she should just ask Arya what the men had meant. Arya was good at explaining things. Maybe if she caught her before she came down to the training yard, they could speak privately and her mind would be set to rest. Making her way to the Lady’s apartments she entered the solar without knocking. Arya never minded when she appeared during the day. She peered into the open door of the bedchamber, but all was empty, the bed seemingly untouched. Tytha crossed the corridor and knocked at the outer door of the Lord’s apartments. She had never visited Father before breakfast before, but she knew Fyffe frequently did. There was no answer to her knock. Pushing the door open, she entered his solar. The bedchamber door was ajar. She could hear voices: ‘Yes,’ said one; ‘No,’ said another; ‘Please.’ She beheld…nothing any child wants to see. Her father’s backside thrusting vigorously as Arya’s hands clawed at his back. Rooted at the threshold, the scene transposed itself in her mind’s eye to a copse beside a distant stream.

> _A girl, older than herself.  
Her step-brother.   
Two of his friends.  
Thrashing. Violence.  
The girl’s whimpers and muffled screams.  
The boys’ shouts, laughter; their nakedness.  
The way the girl’s eyes had met Tytha’s briefly through the underbrush, pinned her in place, and conveyed with a desperate but resigned shake of her head: “No. Run.” _

The sound of Arya crying out pierced the fog of memory and sent her hurtling from the room and down the stairs until she reached the nursery-privy where she retched her stomach empty and sat trembling until Fyffe banged on the door demanding to be let in before she disgraced herself. 

Tytha didn’t come down for training. She didn’t come to the Round Hall for the morning meal. When Gendry asked Fyffe if she’d seen Tytha she’d replied, “She was being sick in the privy for a long while this morning, Papa. I haven’t seen her since. Maybe she’s back abed.”

Exchanging concerned glances with Arya, Gendry beckoned for Maester Brymar and Septa Alynne to attend him, informed them of what Fyffe had just shared, and sent them to see to the welfare of his girl. But she wasn’t abed. Or anywhere in the nursery apartments. They searched the training yard and the stables after which it became apparent that wherever Tytha had flown, she had taken her horse, Offstyd. 

Gendry was livid. What could have happened? He pressed both Maester and Septa for clues about her recent behavior. Both admitted that she had seemed out of spirits the day before, but an occasional lowness was normal in all children. Given her general demeanor until recently, neither had marked it as being out of the ordinary.

Arya reasoned that since she’d taken the horse it was likely she wasn’t anywhere in the surrounding city. Mounting up, they rode. Some men were assigned the road south, others fanned out into the countryside, while Gendry and Arya took the King’s Road north toward King’s Landing. That destination seemed the most logical to them both since Tytha had been there before. They rode fast, eyes scanning the ditches, trees, lanes and byways. They came upon her little more than an hour’s hard-ride up the King’s Road. She’d ridden Offstyd into the trees at the sound of their approaching hooves and there was a mad chase through the woods, brought to an end by an expanse of rushing water. Not knowing the depth of the river, Tytha had yanked Offstyd to a halt. Gendry, pulling up alongside her, caught the mare’s bridle demanding, “Seven hells, child! What do you think you’re playing at?” 

She glared daggers at him shouting, “I know what you’ve done! I saw what you did to her!”

Gendry glowered at her, out of breath and perplexed. 

Arya rode up alongside Offstyd’s other flank. Realizing she was there, her eyes wide and face aghast, Tytha asked incredulously, “You came here? With him? Are you all right?” 

“We’re worried, Tytha. Why are you running off? What, in the name of the gods, has upset you?”

“Going to that Lady Knight for help! I saw you,” she said again, bitingly, as she turned to Gendry. “I know what you were doing to her. I’ve seen it happen before.”

Gendry dismounted and looped his reins around a tree. He felt utterly bewildered and he needed his feet on solid ground. He’d just ridden hard, fear clutching at his throat for more than an hour after this child and she was blaming him for something—he had no idea what. His confusion made him angry. Stalking back to Tytha, he wrenched her struggling body mightily from the saddle. He didn’t like manhandling her, but she continued to twist away from him until he gripped her shoulders and shook her lightly, his exasperated voice snapping, “I don’t know what it is you think I’ve done Tytha. Or who it is you think I’ve hurt. All I’ve ever wanted is to love you and give you what you deserve as my daughter.”

“I wish you weren’t my father!” she spat at him, “I’d rather not have whatever you think I deserve! Did Arya deserve what you did to her? Is that love?” She lashed out with one foot, swiping him neatly in the shin. The surprise of the blow staggered him and he let her go. She dashed away but Arya caught her, demanding, “Just what in bloody blazes do you think he’s done to me?” 

“I don’t think! I know. I saw. This morning. In his bedchamber. _He hurt you._” 

All at once Gendry understood. Shame shrouded his entire being. He’d thought the lowest point in his sexual life as long-crumbled to dust as the Red Witch herself. This was worse. So much worse. His daughter thought him a raper. Did she think she was conceived in such a way? And her words: ‘I’ve seen it happen before.’ He suddenly understood her wariness, her inability to trust, her hesitancy around men. And he still wasn’t certain of the depths of her trauma. It brought him to his knees, as though pole-axed, on the riverbank. He was completely at a loss. His eyes wordlessly pleaded with Arya to fix this. 

Arya’s face briefly registered her deep personal mortification but she quickly masked it. Gendry had always been strong and steadfast even in the midst of exhaustion, futility, rejection: seeing him fall to his knees she understood that this was what it might take to break him. “No. He didn’t,” Arya said firmly. Bending slightly, her hands cupped Tytha’s tearful face so that their eyes met and she said, “I’m so sorry you saw what you did today, Tytha, but you misunderstood it. Your father has never hurt me. He could never. Would never.”

“But I saw… And you sounded…? Why would anyone? You mean you let him? Do that? But you’re so strong. Why would anyone? What do we train for if we can’t…?” Each question made her more flustered, her anxiety growing. 

“When did you see it happen before?” Arya asked, trying to make some sense of this blizzard she found herself lost in.

> _She’d been sent to the sheep-field with a message. The sheep were scattered but she’d heard people. She’d seen what she’d seen. Run. Hours later he’d found her miles down the road. He’d hoisted her over the saddle in front of him, spanked her and berated her, demanding to know where she was going and why she hadn’t delivered the message from his father. She’d been terrified, but whispered accusingly, “I saw you.” He’d laughed. He’d struck her again. He threatened her with the same fate should she tell anyone._

“I couldn’t help her. But I wanted to help you.”

She was calmer now, but wouldn’t meet Arya’s eyes. Tilting the child’s face upwards, Arya somberly asserted, “What you have to understand is that although what you saw then might have looked and sounded a lot like what you saw today: it wasn’t. What happened then was wrong. That girl didn’t want those boys. Those boys forced themselves on her and that was wicked. But I promise you that what was happening between your father and I was not forced. It was something I wanted very much and I enjoyed. It is a private way of being close. A way we show each other how much we need one another. You asked earlier ‘Is that love?’ Between your father and I—it is. Can you understand that?”

All was silent, except for the rushing water and the chirp of birds for many excruciating minutes. 

Finally Tytha said, “I don’t understand. It doesn’t seem enjoyable.”

Arya coughed. “You’ll have to take my word for that, as you have taken my word on the fact that the world is round. You owe your father an apology. You’ve accused him of unspeakably vile things today when he has been nothing but good and patient with you, your sister, and myself.”

Tytha cast her eyes timidly at Gendry. He looked as though he had barely survived a second Long Night and could scarcely meet her eyes himself. She whispered, “I’m sorry, Father.” He nodded, vaguely.

Arya continued, “And you owe us both an apology for entering a bedchamber without knocking.” 

Tytha looked up at her, “I did knock. You didn’t hear.” 

Feeling deeply chastised, Gendry finally spoke, “Then I apologize to you both for not hearing. It was my bedchamber.” He wanted this conversation to end more than he’d wanted anything in a very long time, but now that he knew, he had to _know_. “Did he ever…?” He’d risen to his feet, “Tytha. Were his threats ever…more?” 

She shook her head in denial. “I kept trying to leave because he kept threatening. But every time I left, he or Maegor found me and brought me back. He hit me some. But he never did _that_. And then grandfather arrived and they all let me go. But sometimes I think…if he found me again…he would. It’s why I practice so hard.”

Gendry rested a hand lightly on her shoulder. She didn’t flinch from him, which he thought was the best he could hope for at the moment. “I promise,” he swore, “that he will never hurt you. I wouldn’t let him. Arya wouldn’t let him. The entire garrison at Storm’s End wouldn’t let him. But I’m glad that training makes you feel strong.”

She raised her eyes to meet his, another troubling question suddenly arising from the depths of her mind, “Are you in trouble with King Bran? Is that why he sent a raven? Will he lock you up?”

“A raven came from my brother,” Arya confirmed, “He wants us to attend him in King’s Landing. But why would he be upset with us?”

“Because you’re breaking Queen Alysanne’s Laws?”

Arya turned mystified eyes to Gendry. He shrugged, helplessly. “I have advisors and Maester Brymar to consult when making legal decisions. This one’s never come up.”*

Gendry rode ahead in order to recall his men. Arya and Tytha returned more slowly, talking. Arriving back at the end of the evening meal they retired immediately rather than confront the endless questions and speculation of the Round Hall. 

When Gendry appeared at the door to her apartments that night, Arya dragged him inside, barred the door behind him, and, blowing out a long-held breath collapsed onto the settle, declaring, “Well, that—all of it--was a horror.”

“Says the woman who once carved up a man’s immediate heirs, baked them into a pie, fed it to him, wore his face for a week, and then proceeded to poison the rest of his men. That helps me put this nicely into perspective.”

“They deserved it. You and I did not,” Arya asserted vehemently. “That question she posed us about Alysanne’s Laws? Seems she overheard some grooms gossiping filth. Something to do with maidenheads.” The expression that crossed Gendry’s face would have been funny if everything about the day hadn’t been awful. “Oh, she’s very unclear about what a maidenhead _is_. Likely thinks it’s an actual maiden’s head. What is that Septa of yours for if she’s not explaining these things to a girl her age? She has no concept of what goes on between men and women. I mean obviously…,” Arya checked herself, “she rather unfortunately _does_. But birds, bees, babes, flowering?” She made a rude noise. 

“I’ll have a word with Septa Alynne,” Gendry said wearily. It was almost the last thing he wanted to do, short of speaking to Tytha about any of it again himself. 

Arya reached for his hand, entwining her fingers with his. “No. I will. And I’m going to be there when she instructs both girls. I don’t want any more misunderstandings. Or their heads filled with any sanctimonious _Seven Pointed Star_ shame. Tytha, at least, remembers being a bastard and you know what that’s like. There are places in this world where women are freer than Westeros and better-off for it. Your girls deserve better.” She squeezed his hand. He squeezed back. After several moments of sitting in silence, Arya brought his hand to her lips, but he pulled it away, rising. 

“Don’t,” he said apologetically, waving her back into her seat, “I really…don’t think…tonight... I can’t. I’m not staying.” She began to rise as if to come with him. He shook his head, gesturing for her to remain, “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been here today.” His tone was grateful and tired, his eyes ashamed. 

“Not had to deal with any of it, for a start,” Arya remarked, “I could have made sure the door was barred.” She understood, but it stung: they hadn’t spent a night apart since her return. 

As he moved to the door, a thought sparked and she clarified, “Maegor? The mother’s husband? It was his boy?”

Gendry, gazing absently at the floor, offered, “He’s called Hos. Hos Baelryn.”

Something dark flickered in Arya’s eyes, “You’ve given me his name. Shall I…?”

Gendry’s eyes met hers, burning with a fury hotter than the forges he still, occasionally, worked. They thundered wordlessly, “Please, do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
(*) Queen Alysanne's Laws being directly tied to the ancient custom of First Night—a practice that had died out in the Stormlands centuries before, and one it would never have occurred to Gendry to restore—it is little wonder that Gendry would be unfamiliar with it.

**Author's Note:**

> More to come. I hope to post updates approximately weekly.


End file.
